


young wolf

by museme87



Series: winter's queen [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Family Fluff, Fluff, Gen, Jon and Arya are KitN and QitN, Minor Angst, OMC (child character), Post-War for the Dawn, R plus L equals J, Samwell Tarly (mentioned) - Freeform, Tormund Giantsbane (mentioned) - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2019-02-09 00:06:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12875961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/museme87/pseuds/museme87
Summary: Jon and Arya's eldest celebrates his nameday.





	young wolf

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the tumblr prompt: 
> 
> I would like to see some time with the kids with them two.

As he opens the door, Nymeria raises her head, watching him with a clear, all-knowing look that reminds him of his mother. Near her, Ghost’s tail twitches his acknowledgement, but that is all, the white wolf not as watchful as his mate. Pausing, Edric bends down to scratch Nymeria behind the ears, and she nuzzles his palm and nips gently at his fingers in turn.

“Good morning, Nym,” he says, and then to Ghost, “and you too, old man.”

He finds his mother and father just beyond, in his mother’s solar, breaking their fast together. Most mornings they do so in the Hall with Winterfell’s men and women, giving each a turn at their table each day. But today is not any day; it’s his nameday, and on their namedays, they break their fast with their parents alone. If not with the lords and ladies or the smallfolk, Edric often has to share his parents’ time with his brothers and sisters, though his father tries his best to make time for them individually. So, he looks forward to his namedays when his parents devote their day to him.

“Good morning, son,” his father says, looking up from a book in his lap. “Happy nameday.”

“Thank you.”

His mother reaches for him, and he gives her his hand. She takes it, pulling him closer and kissing him on his knuckles.

“We thought you might sleep until supper.”

His father smirks. “He needs his rest. He’s a growing boy.”

“Aye, and one day he’ll grow to be king. Kings should be up with the dawn.”  

“And queens?” his father asks, mischievously. “What of them? I might have to find another wife.”

Edric knows his father teases; his parents are a love match, and that love has not soured over the years. They are openly affectionate, his mother sitting on his father’s lap as feast nights linger into the early hours of the morning and his father stealing kisses from her like a boy green to love. Lord Samwell regularly complains about their affections when he thinks he is not listening, and Edric has heard rumor that the Free Folk sing a bawdy song of his parents, but Tormund Giantsbane refuses to sing it even though Edric has asked very nicely. Though he’s heard of kings putting their wives aside or ignoring them for a mistress, Edric knows Jon Stark is no such man.

His mother raises an eyebrow. “Shall I list for you all the things I did yesterday? Or the day before? Or the one before that?”

“Please don’t,” his father says with a chuckle, raising his hand to stop her. “The North could not ask for a better queen.”

Satisfied with his father, his mother stands and pulls him against her, wrapping her arms around him tightly and kissing his head. “Your father’s being stupid, my love. But _you_ are my life. Happy nameday.”

“He’s nearly as tall as you.”

Edric smiles at him conspiratorially. “That’s still not very tall.”

“I’ll pretend you didn’t say that because it’s your nameday,” she explains, her voice as sweet and soft as if he were a babe in arms still. “Now let’s get you fed. Your father and I have a gift waiting for you when you finish.”

He takes a seat between them, digging into his food as he suddenly feels hungry. Placing two letters next to his cup, his mother explains that he’s received ravens from his aunt Sansa and uncle Bran to wish him well on his nameday and that on the morrow he should write them back to give them thanks. Edric does not mind Uncle Bran so much, but Aunt Sansa always fusses in her own lady-like way when she visits and wonders if his mother would be too upset with him if he forgot. He looks to his father to see if he’ll speak up on his behalf and tell his mother he does not have to write the letters, but Edric instead finds his father looking at him thoughtfully.

“What?" 

“Nothing,” he says, but Edric can tell his father won’t leave it at that. “It’s just that every year you look more like your uncle.”

Edric doesn’t have to ask which one. Everyone in the North has been saying how much he favors his uncle Robb since he was old enough to sit a pony. It’s not his coloring, but the shape of his face and some of his features, or so he’s been told. Edric doesn’t mind it so much, except when his father looks at him sadly.

“And you inspire loyalty like him,” his mother adds. “I think he would be proud to call you nephew.”

Edric never knows quite what to say when his parents talk about the dead, so he just thanks them both and turns back to his bacon. His mother cards her fingers through his wavy brown hair, her touch as soothing to him now as it had been when he was very little. As for his father, he gives him a good squeeze on the shoulder, his hand lingering lightly for a moment and his smile warm.


End file.
